Chapter one
Delilah
As much as I tried to stop it, fuzzy socks and a matching PJ set have become my daily work attire.
Warm, mid-morning light drifts across the wood floor of my apartment as I shuffle out of my bedroom, pulling said fuzzy socks on as I go. Rubbing my eyes, I make my way over to the coffee pot, pressing a button and then leaning against the counter with a yawn.
Yes, it’s 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. But as someone who works from home and sets their own hours, it’s my prerogative to get up at whatever time I want—despite how much my brother, Harrison, likes to mock me for it. He’s an early riser—being a ranch hand and all that. One of the many reasons we don’t share an apartment. No, I’ve got the place, albeit a small one, all to myself.
I yelp as tiny, feline claws penetrate my fuzzy socks, shooting a glare down at Pickles. It only lasts about half a second, though, because he just so happens to be one of thecutest things on planet Earth. I scoop him up into my arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy, gray forehead as he purrs.
“Let me guess,” I say, walking him over to his food bowl a few feet away. “You’re starving.”
He mewls, leaping out of my arms and proceeding to scream at me while I grab a can of wet food and pry it open, dumping it into his bowl.
Pickles and I have been best friends ever since I found him as a shivering kitten on my front porch two years ago. And now the little bugger bosses me around like I’m a treat dispenser. Oh, well. Better than a roommate. Or my brother.
I resume my lean against the counter, scrolling through Instagram as my coffee brews. When the pot beeps, I pour a cup, adding some creamer while I shift to the email app on my phone.
My eyebrows rise when I notice a familiar name pop up, and I grin.
“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee and heading across the room to my desk. The apartment is small—very small—so the entire main living space is a kitchen, living room, and office all rolled into one. At least I’ve got a nice view of Montana mountains out my window.
I open my laptop, pulling up my email and seeing Jessica’s name, a project title in the subject line. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.
While the aforementioned sleeping in is definitely a perk of working essentially for yourself, one of the cons would be … instability, I suppose. I’m a ghostwriter. I’ll write pretty much anything for anyone, but in order to write, I need to have clients—projects. And most of those projects come through my literary agent, Jessica.
The last few weeks have been a bit of a dry spell. I just finished up the last book in a teen fantasy series I’d been working on over the last year, ghostwriting it for a TikTokinfluencer. And while the pay for a full book can be great, since then, the gigs have been zilch. Nothing.
It was enough to partially resurrect my childhood dreams of writing my own novel.
Partially. As in, I stared at a screen for a long time, brainstormed, and ended up what I can only describe as word vomit.
Thank God for Jessica and her email.
I click it, skimming the paragraph andthen opening up the project proposal.
Full-length fiction novel—yes! That means a big payout.
Ghostwriting for an already established author with a big following and multiple subgenres. Yep, I can work with that. Study the voice, grasp the vibe, and churn out something similar. Easy peasy.
Romance.Okay, I’ve written some romance before.
High steam.
I halt my reading. Hmmm. My heartrate spikes, and I bite my lip. I take a deep breath … and read it again. Yeah, no, it’s still there. I read that right.
High steam. Meaning … sex scenes. Detailed, graphic sex scenes.
I suck a breath in through my teeth and lean back in my chair with a huff. Pickles, breath stinking slightly of his tuna-flavored wet food, hops into my lap and starts purring. I pet him absentmindedly, still staring at my laptop screen.
I’ve never been one to shy away from any new type of writing project. I’ve tried my hand at almost everything out there—memoir, fiction, historical, articles, you name it. And Ihavewritten romance before. Only, they’ve all been closed door. Nothing more than a few passionate kisses happening on the page.
And I’m not a prude. Despite what kids back in high school—and maybe college—used to tease me about. Sex is … sex. It’s a thing people do, and I have no problem with it.
But I also have … no experience with it.
Which, at twenty-six, is somewhere between odd and humiliating. I just haven’t quite landed on the exact adjective. Mostly, I try not to dwell on it. Until something like this gets thrown in my face and I’m forced to reckon with it.
